


Revolutionaries and the Etcetera.

by possiblecontent



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Steve Rogers, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Bruce Banner Feels, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Clint Barton Feels, Clintasha - Freeform, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Highschool AU, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Identity Porn, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Marvel - Freeform, Marvel Universe, Minor Character Death, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Steve Feels, Stony - Freeform, Stuttering Bruce Banner, Superhusbands (Marvel), Teen Angst, Thor Has Issues, ThunderScience - Freeform, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Has Self-Esteem Issues, Tony Stark Has Trust Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Top Steve Rogers, also about the underage thing, and thor and jane go at it but it wont be graphic, im sorry, its implied tony isnt a virgin, marvel AU, not any of the leads i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-04-28 18:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14455353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possiblecontent/pseuds/possiblecontent
Summary: But maybe Tony was getting too excited. Right? Because Steve Rogers has never said a damn thing to him before, maybe once maybe, but never a conversation, never a hello, maybe once maybe, but still never something real.Something authentic.Then again, Steve didn’t have to try to be authentic. He always was.Tony envied that. How could you exist without covering up everything inside of you, building that slowly growing wall, cementing yourself away from the world and pretending you loved yourselfGod fucking damnit, relax, Tony.He took an unexpected shuddering breath.It was nothing.Except it wasnt.





	1. The World and It's Romantic Involvement - Prologue

Tony took in a deep breath, wind flowing through his hair. The air tasted like pastel sunshine and his body felt like feathers, more so head a cloud, but his fingers the weight of a pair of loose, untied sneakers. Things were red and yellow and blue, a primary ordeal, and then they faded into secondary and tertiary, a world painted in a maximum color wheel, and in betweens, tints and tones and sweet, sweet shades. A color wheel in the surrounding at the dusk of time, a color wheel frozen and moving all the same above Tony’s dark, contrasting hair and olive skin. He didn’t blend very well with his surroundings, but typically Tony didn’t anyways. 

The Sea gently kissed the Sand over and over again as Tony pulled up to the place where the Sand cheated on the Sea, where the Cement met the light grains of dirt. There he climbed out and walked through the pinking Sand, which may have colored from the embarrassment of being in between the Sea and the cement, but mostly just reflected the dusk skylight. It would be wrong for Tony to assume there was anything romantic going on between the three, but he did like a good love story, especially a love triangle. Those were always exciting.

However, it became clear as Tony took a seat in the sand that there was, in fact, a fourth subject, who seemed far away. Did the Sky count as a fourth subject? They say that the Sky's the limit-which is complete bullshit, if you’d ask Tony, not that he liked space-but where exactly did the Sky begin? It seemed to Tony that, if you looked off into the horizon, you could see the Sky pressing against the Sea and-Oh. Another subject-the fifth. The Sun, trying to escape the sky by pressing into the Sea. If that wasn’t the epitome of innuendoes-no, no it was. Tony laughed to himself. 

Perhaps the Sun and the Sea had a thing? A secret thing. The Sun always seemed to try to escape the Sky. However, the Sun only came by once or twice a day to kiss the Sea along a horizon, and even then, was he really doing that? Was he really kissing the Sea, or was it just a trick of the mind? Flat-Earthers might say that the Sun was, in fact, kissing the Earth, but if you didn’t believe in that kind of thing, you’d know that if you walked a long time, you’d see a change in perspective-the Sun never kissed or touched the Sea, it just looked like he did. 

Tony’s gaze fell onto the Sea, who gladly pressed himself into the Sand. Now that was a man, feeding his partner all the love he could give, over and over again, salty kisses pressing into the grains, making her wet-

Well. Another innuendo. Tony laughed again, then laid back into the Sand, looking up at the dusking Sky. She was losing her light, and Tony thought to himself: If the Sky was so great and everything, why did the Sun seem so adamant about leaving? Tony could see the Sky lose her light and turn dark when the Sun escaped. He’d lead her on, say things would be bright and beautiful, but then he’d leave every time and the Sky was alone, only accompanied by-is that a sixth subject? It was. It was the stars-well. Several. They definitely didn’t love the Sky. They were flings and they freckled along Sky’s dark, broken facade. Tony felt his chest twist a bit as he stared. He hated space.

They were just flings, all the Stars in the Sky. They dotted along her uncovered body, leaving marks, bruises, scratches, heart aches. When the Sun was there, they were hidden, but when he left, they were there. They’d keep her company, for a while, but they were clearly out of reach. Far out of reach. The Sky could never feel the same way she felt with the Sun, who always left her every evening, cheating to the other hemisphere, cheating to the Earth, cheating to the Sea. He’d cheat and cheat and cheat and the Sky, the Sky was so desperately dependant, so desperately in love. 

She was nothing without the Sun, just a dark canvas painted with the places where past lovers had touched her.

That’s the kind of guy the Sun was. He’d give, make you think you needed him, and then he’d leave. He’d tally up all the people he made fall in love with him, the Sea, the Sand, the fucking Sky, he’d tally them up and he’d make them his bitch. 

Tony sat up abruptly and licked his lips, staring at the Sea. Though the stars were visible there the Sun was, dipping into the Sea, peeking over and cascading his final, deep, orange breaths along the Earth that Tony could only see suffering from the lack of him. 

And finally, once the Sun left-good riddance-the Moon was visible. The seventh subject. He was a little different. Sometimes he looked like he was there and sometimes he looked like he wasn’t. Granted, the moon only revealed himself when the Sun left-even then, sometimes he wasn’t-and he’d sit patiently with the Sky, waiting to see if he could possibly brighten her day. He couldn’t. He outshone most of the stars behind him and sure, the Moon was great to have around, but he wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough for the Sky, and surely wasn’t enough for the Earth. 

And then, Tony tore his gaze away to see the Sea, who crashed himself into the Sand. There they go again, except if you looked close enough, if you knew, you would see that the Sea crashed into the Sand only because he craved the mysterious Moon, who cascaded his light onto the Sea. He wasn’t enough for the Sand or the Sky, but he was enough for the Sea, who simply acted and thought of him, how he made him feel, how he made him tug, pull back, push forth-

Innuendos. Except, Tony didn’t laugh this time.

He regretted his first thought, to think that the Sand, who enjoyed the kisses from the Sea, that the Sand would ever think about going for the Cement. They were just friends. The Cement stood by her side, smiled, laughed, and hugged the Sand closely. 

The Sand had a friend, but was lied to. The Sea made love to the Sand, but desperately wanted to touch the Moon. The Moon tried to brighten the Sky using advice from the Sun, but the Sky was already dotted with so many Stars and just because the Moon was sometimes full, he still disappeared the next day. Whether this was from lack of confidence, insecurity, or the Sky thinking she liked him sometimes and then sometimes didn’t, was a mystery to Tony. And finally, the Sun, who always left and then came back, the Sun who Tony had first initially called out for cheating, the Sun who made the entire world revolve around him, he realized, was unintentionally everything everyone wanted sometimes.  
The Sun could do things to the entire world that the other elements couldn’t do for each other. The world breathed because of the Sun. 

The Sun looked like he kissed the Sea, but he didn’t really. The Sun looked like he wanted to run from the sky, but he didn’t really. The Sun looked like this and the Sun looked like that, but the Sun was just doing his job.

Tony tried to tell himself that when he sat up from the Sand, who he felt so much sympathy for. Tony looked to the Sea in disgust, the Sky in earnest for her to realize that the Sun had only seen her as a best friend and nothing more, for the Sky to notice the Moon, who tried his best to be there for her but was so unsure. Tony looked to the Sand and wanted to tell her she was being lied to, but couldn’t bring himself to tear her heart out. He looked back to the Sea in confusion, and for a moment he understood. The Sea couldn’t help himself. He loved the Moon, and the Moon was lost most nights.

Tony realized, as he stepped onto the caressing Cement who hugged the Sand, that maybe the world was really just a huge, heaping mess of confused love. 

Or maybe it was all just about perspective.

Tony wasn’t sure of anything. Tony wasn’t sure which one he was, the Moon or the Sky, the Sea or the Sun, the Cement or the Sand, or maybe just the Stars who seemed more distant, far away, and lost than any of the 6. 

Tony just decided that the world was sitting inside him and left it at that.


	2. Natasha and Steve Hold Hands and Bruce is Emo About It.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot to tell you guys that this is a high school au  
> also, be prepared for changes in which character we follow. 
> 
> Anyways, the title speaks for itself.

**TONY**

“Anthony.” 

Tony looked up from the space he had been staring blankly at on the wall. It had been 4 weeks since Tony laid in the sand, secretly feeling the pink colored grains curl between his toes, swallowing the Sea to himself and watching the Sun cheat the Sky. Or was it the Sky that cheated the Moon? Or the other way around? Tony couldn’t remember-he was drunk, feeling too much and far too little all by himself: three things that led to overthinking and oversaturated bullshit. 

“Yes?”

“I asked you what the historical context was behind this piece of text.” 

Tony shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, focusing on the writing on the board. He stared, squinted, leaned forward before shaking his head. “No, no, sorry, I forgot how to read.” he said dryly, relaxing in his seat and resting his fist against his cheek. His surrounding friends giggled and he smirked behind his hand. 

“Haha, Mr. Stark. What about you, Steven?”

Tony turned his attention to Steve Rogers, who sat in the back of the class. The world shifted for a moment to pay attention as Steve looked up from his drawing, smiling politely. 

“The Han Dynasty fell because the upper class citizens became increasingly infatuated with their growing accomplishments and innovations. Pride.” Steve responded cooly. The teacher smiled, nodded, and resumed teaching the class. Tony stared at Steve for several more moments, licking his lips as Steve looked back down at his drawing. Tony stared.

Tony stared.

Steve looked up and Tony quickly looked away, slouching back in his seat and tapping his pencil, pursing his lips. 

He fell back into his regularly scheduled daydreams, looking out the window and watching the cars drive passed. He thought of Steve Rogers for a moment, briefly, and then thought about other things, like how the day has been 0.0000018 seconds shorter since 2011 due to an earthquake in Japan, or how whale dicks are called dorks, or how Tracer, from Overwatch, defies quantum mechanics. 

It was fun to think sometimes, but it usually did end up leading Tony down the wrong path. Luckily, his disassociation allows time to seemingly move twice as fast than usual and just when Tony began to think too much, the bell always rang. And it did.

He got up and grinned as his friends surrounded him excitedly, all chatting wildly about things that didn’t matter. 

Tony Stark had everything he could have ever imagined. His father, Howard Stark, ran a weapons manufacturing company and his gorgeous mother, Maria Stark, played him piano when he felt a little too stressed. They ate out every weekend, they smiled, they laughed, and Tony owned his own beach. He was smart, had enough credits to graduate high school already, and was well attractive, more so than most of the students in his high school. He slept with girl after girl, danced in the dark, drank liquor on Saturdays, and never ever cried. 

Tony Stark was a spoiled brat, most people would say, but he was charming, good looking, never flunked a class in his entire life, already had scholarship after scholarship, and was ripe enough to pick off of a tree and eat at the age of 17.  Tony Stark was likeable. Not a single person could have hated him, his arrogant air, his nose turned high up, his lovely smirk plastered across his sharp face. People liked Tony Stark. They liked him, they wanted to be friends with him, they wanted to dance with him in the dark, drink his liquor, fuck him, and maybe have a party on the beach sometime.

Life was good. Life was up for the taking, Tony had it in the palm of his hand.

Life was built for the wicked, keen, and lost, those who are far more than just something: Extraordinaires. Revolutionaries. Peculiarities. These are the kind of people that make you faint from terror and infatuation, the kind of people who sucked in all the air in the room and you wanted to dive inside their lungs just to breathe, the kind of people who eclipsed the sun and made you go blind if you looked far too long. 

People can find themselves infatuated, breathless, and blind most of the time with these ideas, these Revolutionaries, these Extraordinaires, these Peculiarities, who were like Tony Stark. It was a game to be this or that, to win and some, to be something far more than what you simply, irrelevantly are. 

This existential battlefield. 

Tony was determined to make his life good and it was. It never once let him down. Tony was born for greatness. 

  
  


Steven Rogers was another species altogether. He was everything and nothing. He had four friends, no girlfriend, took four electives rather than two, and smiled always. Tony smiled too, but his smile was for show, for applause, for people to want to walk over and lick his teeth and push their tongue in his mouth. Steve’s smile was for strangers, angels, and not Tony Stark, not because Steve never smiled at him, but because Tony refused to look when he did. 

Steve became a new student just last year, sweet, small, and alone. Lucky for him, he was really hot. Steven Rogers was probably the ultimate sex god, we’re talking sharp jawline, shoulders that you’d want to sit your thighs on, and a pair of arms you’d ask to squeeze by impulse. 

Not that Tony ever thought about any of this.

Steve was well off with everyone and even though he was attractive, his personality did not follow his glorious looks. He was humble, sweet, and he could probably give you diabetes if you kissed his mouth. He probably tasted like strawberries, or something with the color pink. 

And he rarely talked to anyone, other than his obnoxious, loud, outcast of friends. 

There was with Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanov, Sam Wilson, and Clint Barton a kind of silly air that Tony was jealous of. Sure, he had his friends, the small amount he cared for, and Pepper Potts, someone who touched and never told, but the group Steve surrounded himself with was something far more than what Tony was, Extraordinary, Revolutionary, Peculiar or not.

They had something Tony didn’t.

And Tony had everything.

 

“I’ve never wanted to jump off a cliff more than I do right now.” 

Tony looked up from his pizza, frowning at his 1/2 suicidal best friend Bruce Banner, who pouted sadly. 

“Oh yeah? More than you wanted to last week? Cus last week you sounded like you were really gonna do it. Not that I support that. I’m here for you.” Tony took a bite of his pizza and Bruce shook his head, staring off glumly. There, in the distance, was Natasha and Steve, followed by Bucky, Sam, and Clint, who were laughing happily with one another. Natasha’s fingers were interlaced with Steve’s, who held that gorgeous smile like he always did.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Tony hummed. 

Stephen Strange suddenly sat himself down next to Banner, greeting the two. Bruce made a soft whimper as Natasha and Steve walked into the lunch line together. 

“She’s so gorgeous and strong…” Bruce mumbled softly. Tony rolled his eyes loudly, taking a bite of his pizza. “Sophomores.” He said, his mouth full of food. Bruce was offended.

“They’re going to prom together.” Stephen said simply. Bruce looked at Stephen. “S-Since when?” He cried. “Uh, today? Natasha asked him.”

“Oh my god, Natasha asked him…”

“It was embarrassing, really. Barton looked like he was going to cry.”

“How did she ask him?” Tony interjected.

“Oh, you know, she sang to him. It was sweet. Steve looked absolutely enthralled.” Stephen nodded, carelessness evident in his voice.

Bruce was distraught and Tony frowned gently, reaching out and rubbing his shoulder. “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. Friend’s go to prom with each other all the time-”

“You would never go to prom with me.”

Tony stared at him. 

“Hell yeah I would. Not even platonically. I’ll wear a dress too-something sexy and high on my thighs. Wanna do that prom night?”

Bruce groaned loudly and rested his head sadly on the table. 

 

Tony sighed a bit and gave him one last pat on the shoulder, before letting go and allowing Bruce to grieve his non-existent, never-gonna-happen relationship. Tony turned his attention to Steve, who was talking casually with Natasha, who stood close to him, nodding, smiling widely as he spoke. He observed, swallowing and staring at their fingers as Steve must have said something that made her laugh. She giggled excitedly, pushing him a bit before letting go of his hand to get their food in line. Tony stared at Steve’s back, not really thinking of anything. 

He felt blankness fill his soul. Blankness? Was that the right word? Tony wasn’t sure. Curiosity? Simple curiosity. Nothing that made him want to get up and ask Steve how his day was or if his face ever hurt from smiling so much and how he kept his teeth so perfect. Nothing like that. Just. Curiosity.

Tony wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about Steve Rogers, to be honest. He felt something, though. It wasn’t restlessness. Steve was… a package. A package with no name on it, no from or to, just a simple, white box. Tony could care less about what was inside the box or why it had no name or why it didn't have a return address. 

But he knew that it existed for a reason.

An ominous sort of feeling that only Tony felt when he looked at Steve. It felt like the universe was shifting its weight when he stared at him. Things faded out, kind of like they did when he day dreamed, and Tony just.. Felt it.

It was cosmic. That term was a little dramatic, but Tony knew it had to do with stars aligning or some shit like that.

Steve was something that Tony knew would be prominent in his future. And he was accepting of that fact.

Or Steve was something that Tony was going to miss out on. Something important-he was going to be something that Tony would say yes or no to and that decision would change their lives.

Or maybe Tony was crazy. He liked to stare at things he liked, and he was neutral about Steve Rogers, so it was something else because Tony was indifferent. He was sure of it. He was indifferent about Steve. Nothing more and nothing less.

Steve looked up from his food after turning around and his gaze landed on Tony. Tony quickly turned away and he felt, suddenly, his heart patter wildly. Had he been holding his breath? Christ, he had been holding his breath. 

It was almost electric, when Steve’s eyes met his, and it sent something down Tony’s spine. Instead of saying anything or thinking too hard about it, Tony just cringed at being caught looking at him for nearly the second time that day. 

That fact was far more embarrassing than anything he could have possibly felt just now-which was absolutely nothing, by the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh idk how many of these I'll be getting out so cherish them while they last


	3. Steve Rogers Paints Tony Stark With His Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short biography on Steve before he decides to spend his time staring at Tony Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY FOR NOT UPLOADING. I FINISHED MY LAST DAY OF CLASS ABOUT 2 WEEKS AGO AND I'VE BEEN DRAWING AND CHILLING LOL, ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS ITS KINDA SHORT AND SWEET BUT TRUST ME I HAVE A PLAN FOR THIS STORY AND IT'S GONNA BE GREAT!

**STEVE**

 

Steven Rogers had three different names growing up: Son, Lost, and Orphan.

When he was named Son, the world flipped upside down and buildings stood from the sky. Gravity did a reverse for Steve Rogers, who was born at 11:59 PM, right on the brink of extinction between the 4th of July and the 5th in the year 2000.

Steven Grant Rogers was his full name and he didn’t like Steven or Grant, but he liked Rogers. Roger this! Roger that!

Steve, Roger That!

It made him giggle.

His loving parent Sarah Rogers and his somewhat loving parent Joseph Rogers met at a tiny little cavern near a tiny little farm in Ireland somewhere, and later migrated to New York where Steve was born in Brooklyn.

Son was Steve’s first name.

Lost was both a short name and very much a current alias, though Steve preferred not to think about that one.

When Joseph died, their last name went from Rogers to Lost. Sarah and Steve Lost, lost the man that was supposed to keep his family healthy, support his family. Roger this. Roger that.

Joseph Rogers was supposed to do that.

But Joseph Rogers died. Roger none. Roger gone.

It was alcohol poisoning. Steve never got what was so great about alcohol. It tore families apart, made someone think they were something even though they weren’t.

Alcohol was just that; poison. Poison all over, disease, death, a one way ticket to dead town.

Steve’s final name was Orphan.

That one seems a little self explanatory, and he was 10 when Sarah died.

Since then, he had been moving back and forth. Adoption never presented itself, and Steve lived most of his life surrounded by other kids who couldn’t breathe by themselves, couldn’t walk by themselves, couldn’t think by themselves.

Roger this, Roger that.

Steve knew what it felt like to be a robot. It was mechanical, day in, day out. Go to school, come back a more defined student. Go to school, become a member of society. Go to war, come back a man. Go to war, become a soldier.

Being a soldier was mechanical.

Steve didn’t like school. He didn’t care all that much for chemistry or physics, didn’t mind math. History presented itself to Steve because history was a story, you just had to tell it right.

Steve knew what he wanted to do once he graduated high school. He knew right where he was going.

He didn’t breathe a word of it to his friends-they didn’t know his parents were dead or about his three other names. They didn’t know Steve liked to paint and deep down he wanted to live but life was a punishment and Steve knew that painting wouldn’t pay the bills, and if he joined the military there wouldn’t really be bills to pay.

Steven Grant Rogers was born in Brooklyn, New York at 11:59 on the evening of July 4th, 2000, had three different names, liked the way green looked on his fair skin, liked the way paint smelled and when he went to take a shower how he would sometimes find it in his hair. Steven Grant Rogers was born in Brooklyn, New York at 11:59 on the evening of July 4th, 2000, was a Son, was a Lost, was an Orphan, and pretended not to be. Steven Grant Rogers smiled politely, thanked teachers for teaching, thanked Natasha for singing, thanked Bruce for helping him understand radiation, thanked Clint and Sam for pushing him to finish his mile run in 4 minutes, thanked Bucky for staying up late when he needed him most, thanked Stephen who helped him understand that confusing anatomy assignment, thanked Thor for being his spotting partner in gym, and thanked the world.

It seemed Steve had far too much to be thankful for. Every second was something that he knew was making up for his parents. He had to appreciate what life gave to him because if he didn’t, it could all be taken away so quickly.

So damn quickly.

  
  


“He’s staring again.”

Steve didn’t look up from his drawing, and raised an eyebrow curiously to the page. “Who?”

“Stark.”

Steve felt himself tense just slightly. Tony. Tony Stark.

It seemed only recently that the popular Junior boy was starting to take notice of him. At first, it was just tiny glances, quick looks. Nothing more. Tony looked at a lot of things anyway, because Tony liked to think-that was one thing Steve knew about him, it was that he really enjoyed thinking. For the most part, Steve wasn’t particularly sure of what exactly, but he was sure that it was something extraordinary, revolutionary, and peculiar.

“Still looking…”

Steve looked up and sighed, turning to Sam.

“Oh, no, he turned away.” Sam hummed and turned back around to smile at Steve, grinning.

“Oh c’mon, don’t tease the poor guy. Everyone looks at Steve.” Natasha smiled and Bucky nudged Sam. “Awe, but we all know Tony. He’s got his eye on youuuu-”

“Knock it off.” Steve rolled his eyes and looked back down at his art, closing up the sketch book and tucking it back into his bag.

The looks, Steve noticed, did grow longer.

Yeah, Steve noticed. Tony Stark was not a subtle guy, far from it. Every grand entrance, every movement, every flick of his wrist, every lift of his eyelids, every step in his goddamn feet from his heel to his toe, had purpose, screamed for attention to the world that, “Hey! Tony Stark is right here!”.

Steve assumed it had something to do with being an Extraordinary, Revolutionary and Peculiarity in human form, head to toe.

His fingers itched for a moment and he glanced up at Tony very briefly, before resting his gaze upon him. He was laughing, smiling at Bruce Banner, who looked absolutely grumpy. Steve took note to ask what was wrong later, but for now he focused his attention on Stark

And Steve couldn’t help it. When he started staring he catalogued, and catalogued he did. Not to be pretentious, because Steve was not the pretentious type, but an artist had their moments, taking in detail to transfer to paper later. Steve had no interest in drawing Tony, not even slightly, but whenever he gazed long enough at a subject, he saw a potential work of art.

Steve painted Tony in his mind.

But don't go thinking Tony Stark is special. Steve had done this to all his friends.

Natasha was always a dark, glowing red surrounded by stars scattered along the most fragile parts of her. Her skin was a vibrant moon blue, but she was almost always exclusively warm colors and had a thing for eliciting purples under the reds she exhibited. Sometimes when she smiled she turned orange and made the world turn grey in comparison. That's what Steve liked about her; she was fierce and gentle and had hidden things under her skin and inside her mouth. She could be any color if she tried hard enough, though it honestly depended on the time of day. When she was that deep, beautiful scarlet red, though, it was when Steve was dipping into her embrace, squeezing the colors out of her aura.

Clint was purple, a deep silky liquid, and his skin glowed much like Natasha's moon-like hue. Though Steve would admit that Clint was constantly changing his tints and tones and shades and highlights, he remained monochromatic. Not once did he appear to be anything but purple, and that didn't have to mean he couldn't be something more. His eyes and his hair and his lips and his scars and the deepest parts of his skin held galaxies of every form of purple. Clint was unique, because no one else could do this, at least not anybody that Steve had painted. To remain so simple yet so abstract and largely varied inside the box that was Barton, Steve found impressive and endearing to say the least. 

Sam was velvet cake covered in sprinkles. His shades were always the deepest red, and his skin was the warmest chocolate brown and his highlights were not yellow, but gold. Steve would never say it, but Sam was particularly beautiful in this sense. His warm skin color outmatched anyone else's he had met, and Steve could imagine himself stroking gold onto his cheeks and eyelids. He could see golden flecks of stardust along the bumps of his spine, and could drag his own fingers across his collarbones, wrists and mouth with tainted gold. In the crevices of his skin, a red glowed against the chocolate brown, keeping him alive and healthy. Sam radiated smiles, was always painted with a sunflower in his hair, and breathtakingly alive. He was warm, so much warmer than any of Steve's friends. To say Steve was not attracted to his presence would be a lie. 

Bucky was blue, brown, and white, much like Sam's gold, red, and brown. Steve had known James the longest out of everyone at the table, therefore being the first person he ever painted. He had been painting him for a long time, but never seemed to be able to break out of the comfortable shell that was Bucky's natural aura. It was almost uncomfortable to think Bucky could be anything else other than the browns that shaded his blue frame and the glittering whites that highlighted him. Bucky was charming, sweet, adorable, and kept Steve's feet grounded to the earth. He was a ship made of logs, sitting at sea against the salty wind of the world. He was easy, searching, longing, and Steve could see that unending curiosity that had been embedded in his eyes from long ago.

Thor was painted with lightening. His skin was rough, etched, and always so visibly intense. He was grey and stormy, but not angry. The outline of his body was a sunny yellow, one you'd see midday, and the tips of his body glowed a soft blue that Steve enjoyed highlighting his eyes with. Inside this blue were waves upon waves of the ocean crashing into the earth, dancing roughly inside his skin. Racing around Thor's frame, from his throat to his hips to his arms to his wrists and legs and feet, was sharp lightening. The intensity of a thousand Gods and Suns were no match to Thor's personality, and though Thor was always bubbly and vibrant, his natural way with the world was gentle, stormy nights at sea. Instead of bath bubbles, he created sea foam that kissed the sand.

Bruce was different; Though he was much like Natasha and Clint with his moon-like hue that traveled across his skin, and though he always wore those round, golden rimmed glasses across his nose with his messy golden brown hair that fell into delicate ringlets at the base of his neck, he was different. He was gentle, soft, made of plush, and Steve maybe found Bruce Banner a little too cute when he painted his Sophomore friend with his eyes. Bruce, though, was not entirely stuffing. He was curiosity, desperation, envious, and childish. He was quiet yet loud, he was anxious yet angry. His stuttering lips had been what attracted Steve first, and Bruce had been through many paintings before Steve settled on what he saw. He had imagined him to be a puzzle piece, painted with exclusively primary colors, and then later he was red and green, nothing more and nothing less. Eventually Steve did settle on the moon white, cornering his frame with the same gold that matched his glasses and hair. However, with the progress that Banner had been going through, Steve wasn't sure how long this pallet would remain, and he predicted that the colors would no longer match the natural vibe that was Bruce. 

Despite all this, Steve hadn't realized he'd been painting a complete stranger. He didn't know Tony personally, just the character he played on the stage that was the world, and that character was always blue, bold, and loud.

But today was different, for some reason. Steve had gotten a real glimpse of Tony in his natural element, surrounded by Bruce and Stephen, not by the boys and girls who had no faces (They didn't have faces because they didn't interest Steve; they were a herd, sheep, blank, crumpled up pieces of paper that followed at Tony's footsteps, rolling their bodies and dancing enthusiastically to the music that left his mouth wherever he went). 

Steve began with the outline of Stark's skin, picking up a metaphorical paintbrush. Tony glowed a deep yellow unlike any other, holding much contrast to Sam's golden vibrant highlights. In the shades of his skin, he turned a deep, camo green that Steve found himself adoring. He painted Tony's hair and eyebrows with dark green acrylics and browns.  He was different, odd, almost uncomfortable to paint at first. Steve focused himself in on Tony, just him, blocking everyone else out. He envisioned Stark on a piece of white paper, animated by the curve of his jaw and his eyebrows, the quirk of his mouth and his eyes. Just the way he fucking breathed made Steve want to pay attention, just so he could get this right.

And honest to God, somehow Steve became the one to stare, somehow he was really beginning to take notice of Tony Stark, the way he smiled, how his eyes always seemed so wide yet characteristically laid back and squinted with interest and tease. It was his eyes that Steve wanted to explore every earthly shade with, and he knew that he'd spend hours on Tony's eyes if he were on a canvas in Steve's bedroom. 

For now, though, Steve felt the urge like so many other times when he painted live portraits, to get up and cup Tony's face, get into the whiff of the music that played from not only his mouth, but his hair and teeth too, and especially his eyes. He wanted to hold his face, study it closely, because Steve always wanted to get things right, especially if he were going to paint it.

Steve knew Tony's eyes were brown, and from this distance he improvised. He painted Tony's eyes with golds, and honestly Steve almost melted at that. Gold was just Steve's favorite thing, and he made sure to go back and highlight Tony's skin with gold too, though it wouldn't be too noticeable against the yellow glow. Only if you really cared to look would you see the detail. He added purple deep around his irises and painted dark brown as the flat color. Surrounding Tony's eyes was a deep green, just to top off that earthly vibe he seemed to be exuding today. 

Much like his friends, Steve enjoyed drawing their colorful connection with the world, and boy, did he realize all too quickly that Tony was a living, breathing forest. Not just a forest, but also the mountains and caves and rivers that came with. He found himself painting growing plants, alive, sprouting from his skin, and flowers caressing across his hairline and wrapping around his wrists. Steve painted vines that curled along the curves of Stark's body, gripping him to the world. He was trees, branches and all, and he was grey skies too, rain falling onto high mountains in the distance, covered in white snow. He wanted those mountains on Tony's throat, starting at the base of his neck and blooming to the sky where the grey clouds faded under the glow of Tony's skin, as if his face were the sun. 

Steve showed no sign of breathlessness, but he felt like he was. Though on the outside Steve was just staring blankly at the boy across the cafeteria, squinting every now and then, internally he stroked Tony's skin with different sized brushes, desperate to get this new piece, this discovery of something unimaginably unique and different, right. Steve somehow had become addicted to studying the way Tony smiled, his teasing eyes, the way he kept running fingers through his brown locks every minute. 

 

“Oh God, now you’re the one staring.” Sam whined and threw a carrot at him. Steve was broken from his painting and he blinked rapidly, turning his attention back to his friend. Taken from the world he had been addicted to, reality fell into place, and Tony Stark, as Steve gave him one last glance, was no longer covered in vines and vibrating a golden glow. He was no longer teasing him with his eyes and quirked mouth. Stark was just Stark, sitting across the lunch room, conversing and nodding as Stephen seemed to have his attention.

Steve, embarrassed at being caught in the act of staring, blushed a gentle pink that scattered his light skin.

“What?”

“Did you even hear what I said?” Sam frowned and Steve turned a darker shade. Tony had really taken a lot of his attention. 

Probably too much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh if Steve Rogers isn't in love with each one of his friends then I don't wanna live anymore 
> 
> Promise this shit will get so good, just be patient. I'm gonna try and upload as regularly as I can, make sure I split enough time in my day to make room for drawing and writing. I start school in a month from now, so I cant tell you how regular my upload schedule will be but I wanna try my best and do this fic. I have a lot of ideas for it and I wanna complete something for once, haha.
> 
> Anyways, I'm dropping lots of hints on who is what in the prologue. Have you made any connections or guesses as to which character is which element? Drop a comment >;3


	4. The Epitome of Heterosexuality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor Odinson is electric and enticing. Tony goes home and falls in love every time.

THOR

Steve Rogers was not the only big and broad new student at Tony’s High School. Thor Odinson was a foreign exchange student, and much like Stark, had a smile that drew people in. His presence was electric, and he smelled like the Sun, tasted like the ocean. Talking to Thor was like driving through a storm; you got distracted easily, and then suddenly you’ve gotten whiplash from moving too fast, thus slipping off the road and heading towards a nearby cliff, where you would dive into the sea if you hadn’t stopped so abruptly at the edge. Sometimes, though, with how alluring that thunderous glow that radiated from Thor’s skin and his hearty laugh, people were tempted to jump that cliff, and let the sharp waves embrace them. Being next to him was like drowning, but the good kind, the kind where you grew gills and let the salty sea fill your lungs and you breathed him in, and he wrapped around you.  
Odinson was confident like Stark, but levelheaded like Rogers. He wasn’t stupid, though he had trouble understanding American phrases sometimes, and had long gorgeous blonde hair that shocked you if you ever had the chance to run your fingers through it. His everything was electric, enticing, and his voice could melt glaciers it was so warm and heated. Every word of his was a blanket coming to tuck you in bed.  
Thor was likeable, popular, silly, and like Stark, was the sun pulling the planets into his gravity. He was so warm that people evaporated, and he soaked them up with every story that he told.  
Though Tony had a big, teasing mouth, he caught people’s interest because he seemed both in and out of touch. One moment you felt like you were his best friend, and the next you realized you were just like everyone else that kissed his gravity. Steve was the opposite, but all the same in a different sense. He was kind, caring, always remembered your name, but still remained closed off, secretive, and with his pack of friends that you would never find yourself in even if you dreamt it.  
But Thor was different. He was inviting. He was loud. He treated every person the same, even if he didn’t know their name. He would laugh, clap your back, call you beautiful, tell you a story with just the same animosity that he would’ve told to anyone else. You would be too caught up in him to even question, to even doubt if you were his friend at all.  
Thor pulled people in with his Kindness Teeth, his Kindness Mouth, his Kindness Laugh. Everything built from the bottom of his throat to the top of his eyes were just aching to tell you something. He smiled at every passerby, every bird that flew above his head, every piano key his mother played, every tiny puddle after a rainstorm. Thor smiled like no one else, and not even Stark or Rogers could take down Odinson’s iconic brand. He was wholesome, sweet, a practical puppy.  
Anyone who didn’t like Thor was insane not to.

Thor was strong. Jane liked that most about her boyfriend. Not only was he gorgeous, beautiful, and sometimes a little too crazy, she felt safe. Anyone who talked to Thor felt safe. That was a normal feeling, to feel completely safe, grounded, even if you weren’t physically wrapped in his arms. Thor had this thing, Jane supposed, where if you clung on long enough his warmth could probably melt both of you like hot wax, and you’d become one.  
Jane had already experienced that a few times. She knew what it felt like. She felt good to know that even that tiniest piece of her boyfriend was specifically for her, knowing that everything else, every part of Thor, from his electric hair to his blue ocean toes and thundering eyes, was for everyone else.  
Open, free, and alive.  
Thor had definitely made Jane feel open, free, and alive on more than one occasion.  
And that familiar feeling was coming on again, Jane taking Thor’s knee, rubbing up his thigh under the cafeteria table and smiling sweetly at him. Her eyes enticed, and though she was just a simple raindrop compared to Thor’s thundering smile, she was confident by now that this could become more exciting as the days passed by. 

Thor noticed her eyes, her smile, the way she squeezed his leg and leaned over to kiss his cheek, gently saying that she needed to use the bathroom for a bit, and then the sway of her hips as she left the table, leaving Thor to stare after her, his throat drying up. 

And this was where things got unbelievably fucked. Well, definitely not literally; figuratively.  
Because Thor was not fucking Jane. Not today, certainly not during lunch.  
But the time of day, the smell of food around him, the students who hadn’t even bat an eyelash at their exchange, were not the problems.

Thor was gay. 

But surely that couldn’t be possible. Surely there wasn’t a thing wrong with the calculation in his dick when God had decided to program him, wasn’t a thing wrong with his organic chemistry. Thor Odinson, broad shoulders that were made for women to cling to, massive hands that were made to tug at long hair, his hard muscles, chiseled jaw, harsh cheekbones and a golden set of hair that were made to get thick with sweat when touching a girl, was supposed to fuck women. He was the perfect male, designed without a flaw. His Kindness Teeth were perfected to bite into tender, soft skin as opposed to rough, tough skin that a boy would have. Thor Odinson couldn’t possibly be anything other than the epitome of heterosexuality.  
And yet, here he was; his stomach was dropping, bile rolling up his throat, his feet turning inside out, his Kindness Teeth rotting inside his mouth. His skin danced, but not with the excitement a fully grown man with pulsing testosterone would get when asked to fuck their girl in the ladies restroom. It was more of a really sad, tripping-over-your-feet-embarrassing slow-dance, and you were doing it with your grandmother and she kept gripping you too hard and thinking you were her husband from the 40’s that died 30 years ago.  
Thor was gay, was terrified, and was confused.  
But he didn’t quite know that yet.  
Of course, how could Thor not know? How could you not know you were gay? It’s something that kind of just happens, right? You just feel it? You don’t taste ice cream and sit there, waiting for your taste buds to nod their head yes or shake their head no. You’re supposed to know! You’re supposed to get it instantly!  
But Thor didn’t.  
Most days Thor would find himself happily snuggling up to Jane’s back, holding her sides, rubbing her soft, thin stomach. He found himself content with touching her, kissing her hair, smelling her skin. It could have been perhaps the relaxed affection he always felt for any human, romantic or platonic.  
But sometimes when she kissed him it didn’t settle well with his skin. Her lips were too soft, it made him feel wrong in comparison, and her boobs always felt uncomfortable against his chest.  
And when they had sex… Thor felt as if he would burst into hives. He felt like he was going to combust, as if a star was collapsing inside of his chest and a supernova was expanding-it was expanding inside of him, but not in a fiery, red hot passion that he was supposed to be feeling. It was too hot. It felt like he was being burned from the inside out.  
He was allergic to her.  
But he loved her.  
Thor loved Jane. He did, he honestly did. But he loved a lot of people too. He loved Steve Rogers, for instance; he was a great sparring buddy, and he always put up a fantastic fight in wrestling. He talked to Tony Stark about astronomy, and Thor admired the way that Tony was always open to discuss the topic with him despite his crippling unsettlement with space. He loved Loki the same way he loved Heimdall, his mother, and his father. He loved Darcy Lewis, one of Jane’s freshman buddies, and her boyfriend. They were fun and interesting and exciting, and so was the rest of the school, even if he had only gotten a glimpse of a person.  
Thor deemed everyone worthy of his love.  
And Jane was surely more worthy than any of them.

So why was he sitting there in his seat, supernova bursting in his stomach, terrified and clammy? Because Thor Odinson was made to love a woman, surely, was made to praise the ground she walked on, kiss her dainty fingers, stroke her thin neck with his own mouth. He was made to paint a girl with love and ravishment. He was made to do that.  
And because Thor was made to do that, he got up and left the cafeteria to follow in her footsteps, despite the screaming terror in the back of his mind that made excuses about how something was not right with the way his feet hit the ground, how he should really be focusing on finishing his story that he had been telling to Fandral at lunch, how he should go talk to Tony Stark about the astronomy assignment he didn’t quite get, or talk to Barton about the math homework they had received the night prior.  
How he could be doing anything else, something else, other than walking into the ladies room to find a girl he was supposed to love, and sink his Kindness Teeth into. 

-

TONY 

Tony loved going home.  
And if he told himself that enough, he could start to believe it!  
When Tony drove home he usually had a friend on his arm most days, either it being Bruce or Pepper or Happy, but today was a Stark day. They were all going to go out to dinner, as if spending family time really cemented that perfect familial vibe they had going on when the Stark doors opened.  
Tony knew they only spent time together because Maria liked to convince herself Howard was still in love with her. Tony wished he could assure her that he did, and that Howard was just a busy guy, but what could Tony really say when he knew how it felt to be unloved by Howard Stark?  
Ah, what Tony would give to receive some sort of lovely recognition from his father, as if it were something he should earn and not be given unconditionally.  
When Tony got home he entered to the sound of piano playing from the living room while their butler, Mr. Jarvis, took his bag and greeted him about his day. Howard, like usual, resided in the basement or garage whenever he got home from work, and since today was a Stark day, that’s what he was doing the moment Tony stepped inside.  
Maria’s music guided Tony’s footsteps into the large mansion the way the smell of honey guided a bear to a bee kingdom. He floated on air, tension releasing from his core as a warm, happy, lovely feeling filled him from head to toe.  
Anthony Stark was a mama’s boy, and he wouldn’t deny it one bit. He was proud to love his mother the way lightning loved turning sand into glass.

“Hey, mom.” He said warmly, walking into the open space where his mother played, notes twisting through the air and lifting Tony off his feet. His mother perked up and smiled at her son gently, seeing him linger around the couch before sitting down, relaxing a little bit.  
She looked back down at the keyboard fondly and began to sing softly. Tony felt himself drift from reality, allowing her words to carry his body into the couch, laying back and fluttering his eyes shut.  
Moments like these were rare, and Tony allowed himself to enjoy the feeling. A wave of brief nostalgia always stroked his spine, sending familiar shivers up his skin as the music reminded him of simpler times in his life, when things didn’t seem to particularly matter, and Tony was still allowed to play pretend.  
Several moments passed until Maria closed up the song, and when the room fell quiet Tony let out a soft, relaxed sigh.  
“Good one.” He complimented and Maria rolled her eyes, getting up and pushing the front wrinkles of her pencil skirt down, taming them to fall immaculately across her long legs as she stepped from the bench. “You could’ve learned piano too, y’know.” She said sweetly, walking over and leaning down to kiss her son’s forehead.  
Tony popped an eye open and grinned widely at the affection. Tony’s smiles for his mother were far different than the ones at school, the rehearsed grins and staged fabrications. It was all for play and performance, never genuine.  
But the times Tony found himself truly content was when his mother stroked his hair, kissed his cheeks, and hugged him to her chest.  
“See, there’s a flaw in that comment. If I did that, then I’d be taking up your time on the piano, which means half as less practice and music-making from you. Who knows what would happen...” Tony sat up, watching his mother chuckle and shake her head as she walked over to sit on the opposite side of the couch, reaching over to grab her mug of tea from the coffee table.  
“You want something.” She said.  
“How on Earth have you come to a conclusion such as that.”  
“You’re being sweet.”  
“Why, a son can’t pay his dear mother a compliment?”  
“Not without wanting something in return.”  
“I want an ‘I love you.’”  
“I love you too, Anthony.”  
“I also want out of dinner tonight.”

Maria perked up and her expression changed instantly. Tony responded with a sheepish, persuasive grin.  
“Tony, we get dinner once every week. Just once-”  
“I know, I just-”  
“-and you want out? You can’t spend two hours with your family?-”  
“Eh, you know we’re not gonna be there for just two-”  
“-Didnt you want out last weekend?-”  
“Yeah, but that was-”  
“Stop talking!” 

Tony clamped his mouth shut, keeping himself from talking over her, which he had been doing.  
“No.” She said firmly and moved to get up, heading to the kitchen. “Mom…” Tony frowned, sitting up and following her. “Bruce and I have this project-” “I don’t want to hear the excuses, Tony, you do this once every month.” She huffed.  
Tony tightened his jaw briefly before sighing, leaning against the doorway as she moved to the fridge, standing in front of it.  
Silence fell between them and Tony felt a small smile creep to his mouth as his mother’s face pinched up in adorable frustration, tapping her fingernails against the fridge door, studying the inside of the fridge.  
“Mom.”  
“What?”  
“What are you doing.”  
Maria looked up from the fridge and saw his smile. She blushed a bit in return, and then reached in, grabbing an apple. “Leave me alone.” She fussed, holding the apple in front of her. She stared at it and then put it back in the fridge. Maria stepped away, grabbing her tea again, and Tony’s grinned widened more as she brushed by him, attitude flaming from her skin.  
Tony knew his mother’s habits like the back of his hand, how she would go to the fridge and pout and stare, stuck in between stress eating or stress cooking. It was an adoring habit.  
Tony really loved his mom.

“What’s with the face?” 

Howard. 

Tony felt his gut twist in his lower belly. 

Maria was pacing in the living room, mug to her chest. In response to Howard, who had made his sudden, quiet appearance, she turned to look at Tony, who came into view just moments later, standing at the doorway between the living room and kitchen. “Hey, dad.” Tony gave him a grin, but it never met his eyes.  
It was a rarity for that case to ever occur, if it ever had in the first place.  
Maria sighed softly and brushed a stray hair from her bun, smiling at Howard and walking over to kiss his cheek. “Hi sweetie.” She smiled. Howard smiled gently down at her, but flickered his gaze to his son, smile quickly disappearing.  
“Nothing.” Tony responded and shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugging. “Dinner?” He asked.  
He knew better than to try and pick a fight. He knew that Maria hated it, and it would result in nothing but awkward silences at dinner. Sure, Tony didn’t want to go, and yeah, the project with Bruce was a lie to go and sneak out to Pepper’s room for the evening, but Tony knew better than to try and stress the situation, especially since he was at a disadvantage currently, with how Maria seemed genuinely upset about Tony’s insistence on outing from their family dinner.  
“Good.” Howard grunted and nodded. “Let me finish this thing downstairs and we can go, darling.” He said simply and kissed Maria’s head before making his exit back to the basement. After hearing the door shut, Tony let out a sigh, looking away sourly.  
Maria tapped her fingernail on her mug for a bit, thinking, before deciding to leave the living room, leaving her son to stand in the kitchen and wonder when he would be able to escape the confines of his perfectly, perfect life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for mushy mama love. Yeah, i'm a big baby and i literally love my mom so much hsbshbadhsdbd, so this is purely innocent, mother and son admiration bc Tony is a big mama's boy.
> 
> Enjoy it while it lasts... :)
> 
> Sorry it took so long to upload. I know there isn't much plot yet, but I promise it'll start picking up soon.


	5. Raining Banter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is essentially another filler, fluffy chapter. I'm really sorry :(. I'm still working on the outline of the story, but I've almost got it complete. Probably wont update again until after Christmas, as I'm doing an art project with a friend of mine :D, and obviously midterms are coming up (i have those at the end of every semester). As much as I love writing, it is really hard for me sometimes so I deeply apologize. Next chapter, real plot will weave its way through.

A week after painting Tony Stark, Steve Rogers found himself outside in the rain, sitting below an aghast sky with graphite on tan paper, attempting to sketch a hummingbird eating a worm. The air was heavy and tasted like dirt and rusting metal as it gently crashed into the tin overhead that kept Steve safe from the perspiration that gravity pulled towards the Earth.

It was exactly 3:30 PM, just an hour after school had ended, and Steve, after spending a few too long moments in Art after school, had missed the bus. Fortunately, Natasha offered him a ride, though she wouldn’t be able to arrive for another hour or so, since she was busy at ballet practice. 

That was always something that sent a warmth to Steve’s chest. He never meant to mock her - lord knows where that would end him (in a ditch for sure) - but it always made his lips twitch at the idea of Natasha, a girl whose expression seemed so utterly fierce and almost murderous on some days, could stand to do the most feminine thing on Earth. He could see her taking a boxing class, he could see her destroying the world and turning it to dust in the palm of her hand, but ballet? It was almost like his mind refused to will it. 

He supposed that it wasn't any different than himself with his head in a sketchbook, rather than on a football field or shoving kids against lockers.  _ God forbid we become decent human beings and crumble stereotypes with the roll of an eye.  _

He smirked at his thoughts, and felt the urge to flip the page to try and draw an image of Natasha dancing, before his comfortable loneliness was interrupted.

 

Deep into the pads of Steve’s skin, he could feel light goosebumps crawl up his arms and to his neck, his breathing hitching for a moment as a figure made itself aware in the corner of his eye. He glanced, glanced again, and then turned his head up briefly to see Tony Stark standing there, deep red and gold letterman jacket bulking his lean figure from the October rain, hair damp under a thick black beanie. 

A wave of hysteria passed through Steve, eyes locked on Tony’s wiry legs that led up to the heavy jacket.

 

What on Earth was God planning?

  
  
  
  


Tony glanced over to the broad shouldered, golden haired God. A gentle scramble of thoughts rolled through his mind as his gaze cascaded over Steve’s rippling body, which took up enough space that it could cause the world’s gravitational pull to shift. 

God, he took up so much space, it was insane. Like, what the fuck? When had Steve Rogers possibly earned the right to be so undeniably massive and yet allow his aura- yeah, his fucking aura, because what else could describe the emotional sensation that radiated off of Steve’s exterior- to seem so gentle. 

It pissed Tony off in more ways than one. 

Tony didn’t sit down, and he stood a few feet away from Steve, minding his own business, because that's what Tony Stark definitely did.  _ Oh yeah. _

You know what Tony Stark  _ didn’t do? _

Act suddenly anxious and awkward and hyper aware of his surroundings, especially his breathing  _ jesus fucking christ, why was he breathing like that? _

God, get the fuck over yourself. You’re privileged, you can breathe, stop inhaling so much damn oxygen, you’ll offend the dead.

But Tony couldn’t. 

 

Because in the corner of his eye, he could see Steve looking at him. 

No, no, not just looking. Devouring? Devouring him, what the fuck, he isn’t a meal. 

Except he was. Tony knew he was. He dressed for that role, that's what the world had casted himself as. _ A meal. _ A medium rare steak with garlic mashed potatoes, and a damn chocolate milk shake with extra whipped cream and a tiny, sexy cherry on top. 

But maybe Tony was getting too excited. Right? Because Steve Rogers has never said a damn thing to him before, maybe once maybe, but never a conversation, never a hello, maybe once maybe, but still never something real.

Something authentic.

Then again, Steve didn’t have to try to be authentic. He always was.

Tony envied that. How could you exist without covering up everything inside of you, building that slowly growing wall, cementing yourself away from the world and pretending you loved yourself

God fucking damnit, relax, Tony. 

He took an unexpected shuddering breath.

It was nothing.

Except it wasn’t.

 

Tony got a shock of bravery and confidence somehow in the deep, dark depths of his stomach and chest, and allowed the feelings to build up and burst through his throat, passing his lips which always helped hide the dishonesty, the facade, the lie that was presented as Tony Stark.

What could he say? He was good at keeping his brand consistent, even when inside he was unusually and unexplainably nervous.

 

“Hey.” 

 

Steve didn’t catch it at first, not above the gentle crashing rain and the rumble of the Gods fighting in the clouds. He almost thought he had heard it in his head, until Tony turned his body slightly, head turning to get an easier look down at him. Steve was sitting on the cement, his back against the brick wall of their High School as he held his sketchbook in his lap. 

“Ah… Hi.” He cleared his throat, looking like a deer had been caught in the headlights. 

Definitely devouring me, Tony thought as he watched Steve quickly avert his gaze to his sketchbook, watching a gentle blush curl up his neck. 

 

_ Definitely. _

 

“Miss the bus?”

“Uh…. yeah, yeah, I did.”

A beat of silence washed over them, followed by more. Steve figured that was the end of the uncomfortable encounter, before Stark spoke again.

“I’ve never seen you in Art Club.”

“... What?”

Tony turned again and gazed pointedly at the sketchbook. After Steve caught on, he shifted just a bit, trying to hide the portrait.

“I’m just saying.” Tony shrugged and turned back to look out at the dripping rain. 

 

Drip Drip Drip. 

Methodical or coincidence? 

_ Its just fucking rain, asshole. _

 

“You’re rather good. I mean. At least I think you are. Not that I’ve ever seen something of yours, I just. I mean. That’s what you're supposed to say to an artist, right? That they’re good? All art is different, I suppose, so really giving someone the benefit of the doubt, especially an artist, makes a lot of sense.” Another beat. Steve stared.

“Not the point. You’re good. Probably. I’m depending on you to be good, because that's the only way this exchange makes sense. You probably are. Again, not that I’ve. Snooped. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn't like to. See your art, I mean, not…” Tony flustered and rolled his eyes, looking back out into the rain. 

“Not…. not that I’m asking to…” he mumbled and shifted. Oh god, just let him suffocate and die. Let him rest. Dying would be so much easier than suffering the psychological toll that the embarrassment just took upon him.

 

“Thanks… I think?” Steve said.

 

Tony glanced at him and had to look twice to really understand, and see Steve’s gentle little smile, the way his mouth curled up and barely reached his eyes, though they didn't have to for Tony to notice the sincerity behind the expression. 

Great. Steve Rogers was laughing at him. Him. Tony Stark. For what, not quite getting his words together? Performing a basic human function? Fuck you, Rogers. Tony can’t do everything perfectly, though he might try (and most of the times he was successful).

“Tony Stark goes to Art Club?”

 

Double Fuck You. Tony decided he didn’t like Steve anymore, only because the man had the power to somehow make him feel like he was two steps from tripping over while walking up to receive an Oscar, or something as horrendously embarrassing and overall scarring. 

Tony Stark’s confidence was once known to be an immovable object, but seeing how Steve was so clearly an unstoppable force, there was a possibility that perhaps, maybe, he was wrong.

Guess that's what happens when you pretend there's something that exists in the first place. Tony figured if he believed in his confidence, the so called box holding all of that pride and air inside of it, would slowly start to build up with the weight he believed in.

Maybe it wasn't because Steve was an unstoppable force, but simply because there really was no confidence inside that little box Tony had. 

 

_ Fuck off.  _

 

“You make it sound like it’s unbelievable.”

“Sorry, must say it is.”

“You don’t know me.”

 

Steve quirked an eyebrow, his smile falling just a bit.

 

And Tony  _ blushed _ . Fuck, he blushed, blushed like the sun burned inside his cheeks and under his skin, making his face glow with embarrassment. 

“You’re right. I don’t.” Steve said simply and turned his attention back to his drawing. 

And Tony…. Felt the… undenying.. Need…….

 

To. A-pol-o-gize.

 

And Tony Stark never apologized for a damn thing. Never. Never!!!! 

That was part of his role, how they casted him. Intelligent, swift, cunning, sneaky, feisty, arrogant, asshole, shitty, garbage….

_ Yeah. _

Tony stepped over slightly in Steve’s direction, and then glanced over to the metaphorical director shaking his head. He looked a lot like Howard. The man crossed his arms before then beginning to shake them wildly, losing it. 

_ You step out of line, this movie is over buddy! Don't you dare say the wrong line! _

Tony decided improvising could be fun. He was good at that. Besides, he could become an indie actor for indie movies. Those were always better than big corporate films.

 

“I... Sorry.”

 

Boom. Contract: Shreds. Tony: Ruined. Bills: Unpaid. Family: Burning in a fire after 40 year old Tony left the gas on when he was drunk and babbling about his career and how he was  _ this _ close to fame and fortune, how he was gonna be the next

 

“... Sorry?”

 

Tony’s attention pulled from his inner monologue and he licked his lips, staring at Steve, who still had that quirked eyebrow expression. Fuck you. Fuck you!!! 

 

“For being a jerk. Just now.”

 

Fuck you. 

 

“That’s… fine. I shouldn't have responded like that. I just meant. Well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you… draw before.” Steve stated in return, his attention back on Tony. Tony tried not to regret having Steve’s eyes on him again. They were astonishingly blue and made him feel like he was drowning. 

“Because I don't.” He said flatly.

“Oh.. oh.”

“But my friend Bruce does. Bruce Banner.”

 

That drew a smile on Steve’s face. 

 

_ What what what what?! Why is he smiling. What does that even mean????? Fuck you.  _

 

“Ah, Bruce. He’s a great kid. So talented.” Steve grinned and chuckled, shaking his head and looking back down at his paper.

 

Tony blushed again.  _ Shut the fuck up. Stop it.  _

“Yeah, he’s my best friend.” Tony said, almost defensively. Why was he getting defensive? God, screw why he cared so much about Steve _smiling,_ why was he getting defensive? Over _Bruce_ , of all things?

“Really? I didn’t know that.” Steve hummed, grabbing his pencil as he began to sketch again.

“Yeah, I sponsor the Art Club.”

“You… you what?” Steve turned his gaze back up to Tony, eyebrows raised.

 

Now this.  _ This _ was more natural. More Tony Stark’s speed. Bragging, swaggering, looking like he had something to say, an agenda to push, _ a club to sponsor  _ with his _ money. _

That made him important. That made him right. That made him fit The Part. 

 

“I sponsor the Art Club. Bruce asked me to, a while ago. He’s Officer.” He smirked into the rain. “Obviously it’s nothing, really. Just doing what I can, supporting the arts and such. Whatever.” He shrugged.

 

“Wow, Tony thats… That’s really nice of you.”

 

Tony saw stars instantly, almost thought he blacked out. He never thought he had liked his name so much. Not in the way that Tony Stark liked his name, but in the way that Tony liked his name because of how it sounded on Steve’s lips. There was a fine line there. 

 

“I know.” Tony said swiftly, grinning over at Steve. Steve glanced at his mouth, catching the smirk and blushing just slightly. 

Tony’s smirk waned a bit, losing its rhythm.

_ Hahaha what?? Haha. Hah.  _

_ What??  _

Tony cleared his throat, walking over and sitting down nearby to Steve.

 

“You’re cool, Rogers.”

“I…. Thanks.”

 

Tony glanced at him, gave him another charming smile and a wink, before pulling his phone out and grabbing his earbuds, deciding to listen to some music while he waited for the rest of the remaining time it took for Howard to come and pick him up, definitely not trying to distract himself from his ricocheting heart that nearly elevated to impossible levels in the mere matter of seconds it took himself to sit down next to Steve, even at a reasonable distance. 

Whatever Steve Rogers meant, whatever kind of ominous box he was, Tony kept telling himself he wouldn’t open it. He’d take Steve’s kindness and acquaintance and it would end there, because Tony didn’t have much reason to be Steve’s friend. Steve wasn’t popular or exciting or funny or anything. He didn’t have money, and he wasn't an Honors student. 

He was nothing compared to Tony.

So why was he interested in what Steve had to draw? Why did he bother sitting next to him?

 

Why did he bother speaking to him in the first place?

 

Tony plugged the earbuds into his ears, as if to drown out these questions and concerns that built up inside of him. Not today, sis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways, I was wondering what ships you guys would like me to focus on? 
> 
> This is definitely more of a stony story, but i love thunderscience too. I'm not sure about clintasha and I'm taking winterfalcon out of this story (sorry my sambucky babes! it's just too much to focus on). What do you guys think? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
